Thoughts
by MCHammerfell
Summary: I could spend the rest of my life adjusting. An Anxiety!Quinn ficlet.


Author's Note: This is a little fast-paced and disconnected, but I can blame that on anxiety. I've never done this before. :x Is Anxiety!Quinn a thing? I think I made it a thing with this. It's a little closer look into thought processes, much like the ones I have. If you have inspiration, use it, eh? Anywho, I hope you like it, at least a little. Many thanks for reviews, guys. Also, I listened to OCD by Neil Hilborn prior to this, and it kind of influenced the plot. Oops. I strongly recommend looking into him. He's a fantastic poet. Gah, I'm rambling. Enjoy!

When the doorbell rings, my heart drops to my stomach. I'd almost, _almost_, forgotten about the text I'd sent Rachel, asking her to come over as soon as she could. I drop the glass of wine in my hands dramatically, just like they do in the movies. The sound makes me jump and sends a pain through my head. I, being the genius I am, figured it'd be easier to talk about something this important while a bit, um, loosened up. I promptly took a cheap bottle of wine from Mom's cabinet and took one of her biggest glasses. That was an hour ago, and I can definitely feel the alcohol now. That is, of course, until I remember how monumental this conversation-if I can get the words out-would be for me, for my friendship, and possibly (probably) my sanity. My hands are shaking, and I wipe them on my dark blue dress. I leave the mess of glass and wine in the kitchen and race through the foyer, feeling my thoughts swirl through my head. My hands shake as I stop at the front door, reaching out nervously. Oh, God I'm going to be sick, I think frantically, opening the door at an agonising pace. Do I look okay? Do I look tipsy? Do I smell okay? Ugh, this is going to be Hell.

Standing in the doorway, in the cutest pajamas I've ever seen, is Rachel Berry, in all her sleepy glory. Perhaps midnight wasn't a good time to ask her to come over, I think, eyeing her mussed hair and the little teddy bear hanging from her left hand. God, she manages to be stunning and freaking adorable all at once. She's like a child, I muse, taking note of the little stars on her pink shorts, which are far too short to be legal. Suddenly I've gone from thoughts of cuddles to thoughts of far less innocent things. Her tan thighs are toned and defined and oh my god-I clear my throat and look up, remembering that she's standing in the cold of the night. I mentally slap myself before pulling her into the foyer, closing the door hastily.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, biting my lip in embarrassment. I must have looked like an idiot. She giggles sleepily and shrugs.

"It's okay. I don't mind being admired," she jokes, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. "Although, it was getting quite cold,"

"I-I wasn't.. I was just-" I sputter, looking for some way to save myself. She laughs and places her hand on my shoulder to calm me down. Quite the opposite effect. My skin heats up exponentially and goosebumps flare up my arm. What is this magic? She seems to notice and smirks playfully.

"Is there a particular reason you wanted me at this late an hour, Quinn?" she asks lightly, wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm. I shake my head to focus myself and reach my hand out to her. "Come to the living room with me?"

When we take a seat on my couch, I realize I'm still holding her hand and quickly pull it away. Several awkward apologies later, she's looking at me expectantly, her teddy bear seeming to be staring me down, too. Everything is quiet, and I feel like the whole world is waiting for me to say something. My breath starts speeding up and my nails dig into the palm of my hand.

"I, uh, I have something to tell you," I blunder, picking at an invisible fuzzy on the couch. Rachel nods slowly, her eyebrows furrowing together adorably.

"I figured as much, Quinn," she chuckles, leaning back on the arm of the couch. She brings her knees to her chest and waits for me to speak, her eyes falling slightly. I feel insanely guilty for keeping her up for something as stupid as my feelings and sigh. "I'm sorry for waking you. It really isn't that important," I mutter, self-consciously looking down to my hands. I wring them together, folding one finger over the other over the other in a frantic pattern. I'm an idiot for getting her out of bed. She'll just end up laughing at me or awkwardly saying she isn't interested or maybe just leaving without a word oh God kill me now-

"Stop that," she says quietly, pulling my hands apart gently, leaving one in her grip and resting the other on my knee. "You're overthinking it,"

No, no, no, I never overthink. I simply analyze every possible outcome.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, looking up at her through my bangs. She's smiling softly at me, attempting to make me feel better. I take a deep breath and try to dispel the thoughts in my head, focusing on the point of her being here instead of my constant fear of her laughing and leaving or the way my hand feels all tingly in hers. I breathe in deeply, painfully so, and expel the breath with a jumbled 'ithinki'minlovewithyou!'. My eyes squeeze shut and I'm already screaming obscenities at myself in my head. I can practically see Rachel getting up and walking out, leaving me to make a mess of myself. Fantastic.

"W-what?" I hear. It's quiet and shocked and a little disbelieving. I crack one eye open and glance at Rachel; her mouth is hanging open, her eyes wide and excited. My fingers immediately dig into my palm, stinging and anchoring me. I'm such an idiot.

"I think I'm in love with you," I mumble, barely audible to even myself. I hear a small intake of breath and feel Rachel's hand shift in mine. This is it, she's leaving. I'm going to be alone. Oh, God.

Instead of pulling away like I expect, Rachel's fingers intertwine with mine, pulling me towards her. I look up in pure confusion-why aren't you running away?-and find her staring at me, a small smile on her face. She looks happy, not upset or disgusted like I'd imagined. What's happening?

"Really?" she inquires, squeezing my hand as if to make sure I'm here with her. I squeeze back, an 'I'm here' to her question. My constant-running thoughts have slowed to a trickle of 'Maybe this will be okay's and 'She's not running yet's. Her fingers wiggle and she's staring at our hands before she's sure I'm serious. Her mouth forms words that sound a lot like "I love you, too, Quinn," and I do a double take, looking from our hands, to her mouth, back to our hands, back to her mouth, completely dumbstruck. Did she just- but I have no time to question it. Her lips are on mine, warm and welcoming and full of love. My thoughts are nothing but gasps and 'Oh, my God's. Her hands find my neck and they're warm and I realize she's not running, but rooting herself to me instead. I'm not used to this, but I could spend the rest of my life adjusting.


End file.
